Teacher Man: A Memoir by Frank McCourt

stood by the door coolly saying goodnight to the parents who left, ignoring the way they glared at her. Now what was I supposed to do? Where was the book by a professor of education that would help? Fifteen parents still sat in the room waiting to hear about their sons and daughters. What should I say to them?
    Norma spoke again and my heart began to sink. Ladies and gentlemen, that was a dumb thing I said and I’m so sorry. It wasn’t Mr. McCourt’s fault. He’s a good teacher. He’s new, you know, just here a few months, so he’s just a learning teacher. I shoulda kept my mouth shut because I got him in trouble and I’m sorry.
    Then she began to cry and a number of mothers rushed to comfort her while I sat at my desk. It was Norma’s job to call the parents up, one by one, but she was surrounded by that group of comforting mothers and I didn’t know if I should act independently and say, Next? The parents seemed more interested in Norma’s plight than in the future of their own children, and when the bell rang to signal the end of the meetings, they smiled and left saying it was nice, this visit with me, and good luck in my teaching career.
    Paulie’s mother may have been right. On my second Open School Day she told me I was a fraud. She was proud of her Paulie, future plumber, nice kid who wanted to start his own business some day, marry a nice girl, raise a family and stay out of trouble.
    I should have been indignant and asked her who the hell she thought she was talking to but, at the back of my head, there was always a nagging doubt I was teaching under false pretenses.
    I ask my kid what he learned in school an’ he tells me stories about Ireland an’ you coming to New York. Stories, stories, stories. You know what you are? A fraud, a goddam fraud. And I’m saying that with the best intentions, trying to help.
    I wanted to be a good teacher. I wanted the approval that would come when I sent my students home stuffed with spelling and vocabulary and all that would lead to a better life but,
mea culpa,
I didn’t know how.
    The mother said she was Irish, married to an Italian, and she could see right through me. Right off she knew my game. When I told her I agreed with her she said, Ooh, you agree with me? You actually know you’re a fraud?
    I’m just trying to make my way. They ask me questions about my life and I answer because they won’t listen when I try to teach English. They look out the window. They doze. They nibble on sandwiches. They ask for the pass.
    You could teach them what they’re supposeta learn, spelling and the big words. My son, Paulie, hasta go out in the world and what’s he gonna do when he can’t spell an’ use the big words, eh?
    I told Paulie’s mother that someday I hoped to be a master teacher, confident in the classroom. In the meantime I could only keep trying. That somehow made her emotional and brought on the tears. She rooted around in her handbag for a handkerchief and took so long I offered her mine. She shook her head. She said, Who does your laundry? That handkerchief. Jesus, I wouldn’t wipe my ass with that handkerchief. You a bachelor or what?
    I am.
    I can tell from the look of that handkerchief, the saddest-lookin’ gray handkerchief I ever seen in my life. That’s bachelor gray, is what it is. Your shoes, too. I never seen such sad shoes. No woman would ever let you buy shoes like them. Easy to see you was never married.
    She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. You think my Paulie can spell handkerchief?
    I don’t think so. It’s not on the list.
    See what I mean? You people are out of it. You don’t have handkerchief on the list and he’ll be blowing his nose the rest of his life. And you know what you got on the list? Usufruct, f’Christ’s sakes, u - s - u - f - r - u - c - t. Who came up with that one? That one of those words you throw around at your fancy cocktail parties in Manhattan? Now what in hell is Paulie gonna do with a word